Chapter 16

Benedict rode Saxon across the old gristmill's uncharacteristically empty yard, slid from his saddle, and tied the leather straps to a post. Saxon snorted. It was the only sound beyond the trill of a couple of blackbirds in a nearby hawthorn bush and the rush of nearby water. The stone building stood perched at the edge of the riverbank, its large wooden waterwheel partially submerged in the river below. Benedict studied the motionless waterwheel and frowned. Surely the miller would normally have the grinding stones working at this time of day.

Leaving Saxon to graze on the grass verge, he crossed the short distance to the main door and tried the handle. It turned, so he walked inside.

"Mr. Abney!" he called.

The echo of shuffling footsteps filled the vast room, and a short man appeared from the other side of the enormous grinding stone. His graying hair was tied back with a narrow black ribbon, and his serviceable clothes were covered in dust.

"Lord Benning." There was no mistaking the surprise in his voice. "Welcome."

"Good day to you, sir," Benedict said.

"And t' you, m'lord." He bowed. "What can I do fer you?"

"I've come in search of information," Benedict said.

The miller's faded hazel eyes regarded him curiously. "If I can be of assistance, I'm 'appy t' 'elp, m'lord."

"I recently learned that Mr. Wallace's shop in Leyfield has been without flour for months."

Mr. Abney's expression fell. "Aye. Terrible, it is. An' I wish there were somethin' I could do about it."

"You are a miller. Surely you can provide him with flour."

"Would that it were that easy, m'lord." He gestured toward two sacks sitting in the corner. "One sack o' oats an' 'alf a sack o' barley. That's all I 'ave left. I'll 'ave that ground by the end o' the week, an' then I'll just 'ave to 'ope someone else brings more grain. Without grain, my mill is useless."

"I understand that the shortage of wheat last year must have caused great difficulty. But the worst is long past. Last autumn's harvest should have been enough to keep up with local demand. Farwell Farm alone produced the best part of one hundred eighty bushels."

"So I've been told, m'lord."

So I've been told?At Mr. Abney's odd response, the first wisps of unease entered Benedict's thoughts. Why would the fellow say such a thing when he would have been the person orchestrating the unloading of all the sacks?

"I would have thought you'd know that for yourself," Benedict said.

Mr. Abney shifted his weight, his feet scuffing the dusty wooden floor. "Forgive me, m'lord. Havin' never seen the grain, I can only go on hearsay."

Benedict's unease was quickly blooming into full perplexity. "Do you mean to tell me that you did not receive Farwell Farm's wheat last August?"

"Jim Simkins brought one cart load soon after the harvest began. I reckon it carried close t' ten bushels o' wheat."

Jim Simkins was one of Benedict's most hardworking tenants. He was usually the first one in the field in the morning and the last one to leave at night. He'd been invaluable during the harvest.

"And after that?" Benedict prompted.

"Nothin', m'lord."

"What do you mean, nothing?"

"I did not receive another delivery."

A muscle in Benedict's jaw twitched, and he made a conscious effort to relax it. One hundred seventy bushels of grain did not simply disappear. There had to be an explanation. "Forgive me for being blunt, sir, but the Farwell Farm ledgers show full payment for all one hundred eighty bushels of wheat."

"Of that, I 'ave no doubt, m'lord. I don't know a miller in southwest England who would 'ave turned such bounty away." Mr. Abney appeared grim. "The ten bushels that came 'ere, I paid fer fair an' square. You can ask Mr. Rowe. 'E's the one who took the money. But I can't tell you who paid fer the rest. All I know is that it weren't me."

A pit formed in Benedict's stomach. He had no reason to doubt Mr. Abney. The empty gristmill validated his story. But if the Farwell Farms wheat had truly gone elsewhere, Benedict owned a hefty portion of the responsibility for the shortage in Leyfield. In August, he'd rejoiced that they'd harvested enough for the local people's needs through the spring. To now learn that his tenants—the very people over whom he had stewardship—had, in actuality, gone without...

Leaving the painful thought unfinished, he released a tense breath. It might take time to discover how this had happened, but discover it he would. And in the interim, he would act constructively.

"How far afield must I go to find wheat?" he asked.

Mr. Abney shrugged. "I've not seen any fer weeks, m'lord. I would suggest one o' the larger towns, but then you'd be up against a bigger population that needs feedin'."

Mrs. Newson had mentioned ordering flour from Gloucester. "What of mills near Gloucester?"

"There's a couple o' small ones, but I think most o' the city's flour comes in from th' Midlands or Stroud Valley by barge."

Benedict had read about the riots at the docks in Gloucester during the worst of the wheat shortage last year. Housewives, desperate to feed their families, had marched to the docks. Several had been imprisoned for their acts of frustration and desperation on the barges. He should have remembered.

"How are things at the docks now?"

"More peaceful than they were, is what I've 'eard."

"Is there wheat or flour to spare?"

"If you have the money to pay fer it," Mr. Abney said.

Benedict grimaced. The household budget would undoubtedly be impacted if Cook were being forced to purchase flour at inflated prices, but at least the option was available to her. For most people, inflated prices meant going without. "I shall make inquiries," he promised. "If there's flour to be had, I shall do my utmost to have some delivered to Mr. Wallace's shop." He paused. "I would also have you know that up until this moment, I fully believed that all Farwell Farm's wheat had come to your gristmill. If, as you suggest, that is untrue, then you have my sincere apologies along with a vow that if you desire it, the lion's share of this year's harvest shall come here."

Mr. Abney blinked as though he were scarcely able to take in Benedict's words. "I... I am most grateful, m'lord."

Benedict offered the gentleman an acknowledging nod. "We shall discuss the details when harvest draws near. And now, if you will excuse me, I have others I must speak with today." Beginning with Mr. Rowe.

Without waiting for a response, Benedict made for the door. A miller with no grain to grind, a shopkeeper with no flour to sell, and families in the community going hungry. All because the Farwell Farm wheat was not where it was supposed to be. He clenched his fists. Their steward had some significant explaining to do.

* * *

Caroline passed through the kissing gate and into the pasture. The public footpath that cut through Farwell land was a more direct route to the Simkinses' cottage than was the lane. Unfortunately, it also appeared to be considerably muddier. Avoiding a patch of cow dung, she stepped sideways. Instantly, her shoe sank. The tuft of grass beneath her foot had marsh-like qualities. Lifting her skirts, she raised her leg. The mud squelched, leaving a brown ring around her shoe. She stifled a groan. Someplace between this spot and Hester's front door, she would have to clean off the worst of the mess.

She had known that the rainfall earlier this morning would make for a wet walk, and she could have put off visiting Hester until another day, but then she would have had to contrive another activity sufficiently all-encompassing that it would capture her full attention. After a fretful night filled with images of Benedict and memories of her unsettling reaction to his nearness when he'd helped her dismount the day before, staying busy had been imperative. She had no desire for those disquieting thoughts to continue.

It had been more than a week since she'd had tea with Hester and Molly at Sarah Trilby's house, and with how uncomfortable Hester had been then, Caroline truly hoped she had delivered her child by now. Visiting her new friend had seemed to be an ideal outing; taking a crock of Nora's pea soup with her had seemed to be an equally good idea. Neither decision felt particularly wise anymore.

She shifted her basket from one hand to the other, wishing she'd learned her lesson when she'd carried a similar container to Sarah's house. When the flour shortage abated, she would take a loaf of bread with her when she visited neighbors. It was far easier to transport and would be equally well-received. She frowned. Hester and Molly had suggested that food was as scarce in their homes as it was in Sarah's. If Hester was truly in need, Caroline hoped her new friend would tell her so. The first few weeks after the birth of a baby was a terrible time to go hungry.

A cluster of three cottages came into view, situated on a low rise. Caroline veered right, heading toward a gate that connected to the lane. Exiting the pasture, she paused long enough to wipe off her shoes with a couple of large dock leaves growing in the hedgerow, and then she did her best to avoid the puddles as she continued toward the humble homes.

Her father had told her that the Simkinses lived in the last cottage in the row. She took the final cottage's short garden path and knocked on the dark-green door. As she waited, she studied the tidy little garden. A carefully trimmed privet hedge separated the strip of lawn from the lane. Roses in a variety of hues grew beneath the windows, their perfume mingling with the scent of mint, thyme, and sage coming from a small herb garden at the far side of the cottage.

An infant cried. Caroline heard slow footsteps, and moments later, the door opened a crack. Someone peered out.

"Caroline!" Hester pulled the door open all the way. She wore a shawl tossed over her shoulders, which covered the upper portion of her shift. Her hair hung loose in a tangled mass, and her pale complexion accented her freckles, the lingering redness of her facial scar, and the dark circles beneath her eyes. She tugged at the ends of her shawl. "Forgive me. I'm not dressed fer company."

"I should hope not," Caroline said. "You are supposed to be resting."

Hester offered a wan smile. "Little Robbie don't seem to agree."

"Robbie? Is that what you named your baby?"

"Robert James Simkins," she said. "Robbie fer short. 'E arrived three days ago."

"I'm so glad. It's a fine name." The infant's cries were increasing in intensity. "And it sounds like he has a fine set of lungs also."

Hester groaned. "I'd best fetch 'im. They'll be 'earin' 'im in the village soon." She moved away from the door. "Come in, Caroline. Please excuse the mess. I'm barely able t' keep up w' Robbie's demands; housework is beyond me."

She crossed the tiny entry and started slowly up the stairs and toward the crying baby. Caroline followed her indoors, but rather than going into the small parlor, she walked down the narrow passage to the kitchen. The door was open. A clothes horse loaded down with tiny cloths stood in front of the stove. Dirty dishes littered the table, and a fly buzzed over an empty pot that appeared to contain the last scrapings of porridge.

Moving a couple of dirty bowls to one side, she set her bonnet and the basket containing the crock of soup on the table and picked up the kettle on the stove. It was empty. She needed water and a washtub. Guessing that the Simkinses had some source of water behind the cottage, she carried the kettle across the room and opened the outside door. Sure enough, a barrel full of rainwater stood to the right of the doorstep. She filled the kettle and then hurried back inside to set it on the stove. Grateful that the stovetop was warm, she scoured the room for a washtub, finally spotting one behind a chair in the corner.

The baby's cries were drawing nearer. Caroline hauled the washtub to a spot near the stove and then looked up to see Hester in the doorway.

"Caroline?" She held a tiny, squirming bundle in her arms. "What are ya doin'?"

"Which would you prefer?" Caroline asked. "I can take the baby so that you can rest, or I can wash the dishes whilst you hold him."

Hester's lower lip quivered. "Yer willin' to stay fer a bit?"

"Not just stay," Caroline said. "I want to help."

Hester sniffed. "My ma's gone. She died three years past. An' all I 'ave fer family are two brothers. My husband, Jim, 'as been marvelous to take a turn in the evenin's, but 'e 'as t' be up at the farm durin' the day. 'Specially now, when they're doin' the summer prunin' in the orchard." Robbie had been crying so long, he was beginning to sound hoarse. Hester stopped her rhythmic bouncing and offered him to Caroline. "Will you take 'im? 'E cries all the time, an' I can 'ardly think straight, I'm so tired."

Caroline accepted the baby. "Go to bed. I will bring him to you when he needs to eat." Robbie must have sensed his transfer from one set of arms to another because he paused his crying to turn his head toward Caroline, his tiny mouth searching for something to suck. She offered him one of her knuckles, and his mouth latched onto it immediately. "Is he hungry?"

"Always." Tears filled Hester's eyes. "I... I cannot produce enough milk fer 'im."

An ache filled Caroline's chest. "What have you eaten today?"

"I had some porridge this mornin'," she said.

"What else?"

Hester wiped the moisture on her cheeks with her hand. "I 'ave a cabbage an' some beans, but I 'aven't 'ad a chance t' do anythin' with 'em yet."

Caroline did not need to look at the clock on the wall to know that the afternoon was wearing on. It was no wonder Hester appeared so weak. She would likely collapse if she did not eat something soon. And her baby would be in dire straits if he did not receive more sustenance.

"I brought soup," she said. "You must have some. Now. Before you rest." She moved toward the basket. "It just needs to be warmed a little in a pan."

Hester swept her gaze across the cluttered kitchen. If there was a clean pan in the room, she likely did not know where to find it. "There's no need t' warm it," she said. "I'll eat it just as it is."

It was not ideal, but Caroline was as anxious for Hester to eat as the young mother herself. "Please begin. I've put the kettle on the stove, and once it's boiled, you can have some tea."

Hester recovered a spoon from somewhere and sat at the table. She opened the crock and sniffed deeply. "It smells marvelous."

"Nora made it," Caroline said. "I can't attest for how it will be cold, but it's delicious when heated up."

Hester took a spoonful right out of the crock. "I daresay I could eat this whole thing."

"You should."

"But Jim—"

"He would want you to eat your fill," Caroline said, silently praying that it was true. "You need it, and so does the baby."

The chomping on Caroline's knuckle had eased. She looked down. Robbie's eyes were closed, his flailing fists now lying quietly against his swaddling. Blond hair like a duckling's down covered the top of his head. Each of his miniature features was perfect.

"He's beautiful, Hester," Caroline said.

Hester lowered her spoon long enough to offer a weary smile. "‘'Andsome,' is what Jim says."

"Yes." Caroline continued swaying back and forth. "He's one of the most handsome babies I've ever seen."